


Are We A Family?

by Neshnyt_Jackalsson



Category: Old Kingdom - Garth Nix
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Family Dinners, Gen, no really I can fix this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 23:21:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5474294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neshnyt_Jackalsson/pseuds/Neshnyt_Jackalsson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A month after the near return of the Destroyer, Lirael has come to live in Belisaere with her newly-revealed family, nominally to train as the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. In reality, she's spent most of it in her chambers trying to adjust, as everyone else tries to move on in their own way. </p>
<p>So it is probably for the best that Ellimere invited her to the first family dinner since the event. Probably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Are We A Family?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [surgicalstainless](https://archiveofourown.org/users/surgicalstainless/gifts).



A month had passed since the Binding, or at least a month had passed in the Old Kingdom. Lirael wasn’t entirely certain how much time she had spent in Ancelstierre immediately following the harrowing event. There had been stretchers, for her and Nick—because Nick was, inexplicably, alive, despite having felt him slip into Death—they laid side by side near-ish the hill, and then in separate rooms in the caustic-smelling infirmary as the more functional of Those Who Stood for the Seven bustled around trying to get details sorted and everyone back home.

But mostly her memories were a blur, because they had won, because Dog was dead, because she had a family, because she could still feel a hand that wasn’t there anymore. A white-clad healer—nurse?—explained that feeling a missing limb was perfectly normal. Lirael didn’t think there was anything normal about it and said as much to Sam when he came to sit by her bed. Sam, who claimed to mostly just feel more exhausted than he thought possible while still being alive, had got a thoughtful look on his face when Lirael relayed this bit of news to him, mumbling something about phantom limbs and the shape of one’s spirit.

Then they had passed north back to the Old Kingdom, the weather somersaulting several weeks ahead into a brisk fall, despite it having been summer in the Old Kingdom when she left. She knew that time on the south side of the Wall passed differently, but couldn’t quite remember by how much. The result was having no clear sense of how long she had been in Ancelstierre; the uncertainty left her disorientated. She wondered absently if this was how the Clayr felt, trying to root themselves in the present and confusing their whens.

The thought didn’t stir the buried flutter of hopelessness that it used to. In the course of leaving the Glacier and the terrifying events that followed, the part of her that desperately longed to gain the Sight had withered away. She was of the Clayr, yes, but now she knew for fact that her future was not one for staring into sheets of ice. She _was_ the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, and the first Remembrancer in the last 500 years. So it was fitting that she return to Belisaere with Sam and his—their?—family, so she could continue studying to be the Abhorsen.

So far this had meant a month of rest, regular castings of healing marks over the stump of her right wrist, cringe-worthy attempts at writing with her left hand, nightly marks for sleep and dreamlessness to keep off the nightmares, and keeping to herself in the spacious rooms set aside for her in the palace. She had a bedroom with a small bathroom off it, a study, and even a sitting room, presumably so she could receive people. That room had yet to be used; when Sam came by every other day, if his duties didn’t keep him, they sat in the study, with its currently empty bookshelves. Lirael thought of the library at the Glacier with a pang of nostalgia. She could start building her own collection now. She could start building so many things, like a place for herself, and relations with her half-sister and brother-in-law and niece.

Which is why she stood in front of the tall mirror in the bedroom, staring at her reflection, right arm tucked behind her. A plain white tunic— _white_ , but not Clayr white—was mostly hidden by a bell-sleeved tabbard of dusky rose, the same color as her gold-starred and silver-keyed surcoat that hung in the wardrobe. The surcoat, she gathered, was worn when on official business outside the palace; tabbards and dresses were standard fare otherwise, and varied by style. The lack of uniform was a little strange, but Lirael supposed that so long as the color matched, no one would look at her and think she didn’t belong.

She ran a brush through her hair and left it loose, lacking the dexterity to tie it back, setting the brush down on dressing table. Her fingers drifted to the soapstone dog statuette there, rubbing its smooth head as if scratching between the ears.

“It’ll be okay, Dog, right? They’re family…” she murmured. The little dog gave no answer, and Lirael swallowed around the sudden lump in her throat.

Ellimere’s invitation to dinner had come only two hours prior with a crisp knock on the door. The niece had stepped in automatically after Lirael had opened the door, but she at least she had waited for the door to be opened.

“I’ve just received word that Mom and Dad will be both be here this evening,” she stated, back straight, hand clasped lightly over her stomach. “We usually eat together as a family, if everyone’s present.”

Lirael nodded faintly, resisting the old urge to hide behind her hair. “That sounds nice,” she offered.

Ellimere beamed. “Excellent! Dinner will be at seven, in the small dining room. It’s not formal, so you don’t have to worry about any of that.” She waved one hand, turning back towards the door. “I’ll see you then, Aunt Lirael.” She left in a whirl of crimson cloth, Lirael blinking after her as her mind realized what had happened.

She spent a good chunk of the next two hours pacing around her room, debating. She had always dined alone, where she didn’t have to listen to conversations that had nothing to do with her and never would. And she really never spoke to anyone but Dog, and then Sam. Ellimere, Touchstone, and Sabriel were a mystery to her.

Then she drew herself up short, as she realized exactly what she was doing. Just like back at the Glacier! She imagined herself sliding back into the quiet, silent girl who only communicated by pen and paper. Before she would have welcomed the anonymity, but now she had the potential for a real family. She refused to lose the progress she had made on her journey.

She had a good sense of where the dining room might be, having studied maps of both the city and palace since her arrival, and walked in that direction. A Charter skin would let her best explore her new home, but the environmental camouflage afforded by the ice otter was lost here. Something smaller, perhaps, a mouse, or a rat… But she also didn’t want to risk being killed on sight by some well-being footstaff. Maybe a cat? Dog would be so disgruntled—

Lirael stopped in the empty corridor, blinking back tears. She took a breath, catching her grief and folding it up small and compact. Time to go to dinner; she could shed more tears later, in the safety of her room-

“Lirael?”

She jumped, turning. Sam walked up the corridor to her, a wide grin across his face. Judging from the grease and oil stains on the upper arms of his shirt, he had been in his workshop just before.

“Ellimere roped you into dinner too?” he asked ruefully.

Lirael nodded. “I didn’t realize it was an invitation.”

“Yeah, she’s like that,” Sam mused as they resumed walking. “I wasn’t going to bother, but then she said that you and Mom and Dad would be there, so…”

Lirael smiled briefly. “Ellimere reminds me of my Aunt Kirriath a little. Always interested in the proper way to do things…”

“Sounds about right,” Sam said flatly.

As they rounded a corner, Lirael snuck a glance at Sam. He strode through the palace like someone confident in their place in the world, the heavy weight previously resting on their shoulders fallen off somewhere behind them. He looked calm and happy, two states Lirael wasn’t used to seeing on him.

“So I’ve been thinking,” Sam started as they neared the dining room. “About your hand. You know how you mention sometimes you forget that it’s not there, because it _feels_ like it is? I’ve been doing some research—that is a common phenomenon. Which got me thinking— people who lose a leg, often times they just replace it with a peg. But a hand is so much more complicated and versatile than that; I think we can do better. Something that’s a cross between a Charter skin and a sending maybe, only solid, as if it were made of flesh and bone.” He looked for her reaction.

“Is that possible?” Lirael asked, the stump of her right arm cloaked in the tabbard’s bell-sleeves.

“I don’t see why not. I’m still in the beginning stages of design though; I don’t have anything to show you. Just wanted to know what you thought of the idea,” Sam finished.

Lirael offered a small smile. “I think that would be wonderful.”

Sam beamed, and the proud look stayed with him all the way to the dining room, where it tripped and fell upon seeing Sabriel already seated at the circular table, a cloak of key-embroidered blue wrapped around her shoulders.

“Mom! Are you okay?” Sam asked, hurrying over. Lirael hovered a few steps inside the door, uncertain.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Sabriel reassured, standing to catching Sam in a hug.

“But you’re wearing the cloak—” Sam protested.

Lirael saw Sabriel’s amused smile over Sam’s shoulder. “You imbued it with marks for warmth and rest and minor healing; it feels like sinking into a hot bath after a full day’s ride.” She squeezed him a little tighter before pulling back. “I might not ever take it off, regardless of whether I’m recovering from injury.”

“When do I get an old man’s cloak?” Touchstone asked, entering with Ellimere from a door at the far edge of the hall. He too was wearing unofficial clothing, a sleeveless tabbard of ruby over his tunic, head bare. Ellimere was the only one wearing any kind of circlet, a thin band of silver twisted in decorative sweeps.

“Do you want one?” Sam asked, sounding startled as he clasped arms with his father.

“A cloak that feels like soaking in hot bath? Hell yes, I want one,” Touchstone stated, borrowing an Ancelstierran phrase he had grown fond of.

As Sam fought down a pleased grin, Sabriel stepped around them and came over to Lirael, embracing her as well, though not as forcefully as Sam. “Well met, Lirael. How have you fared?”

“Well, Ab- Sabriel,” Lirael caught herself. Even after the event, she had a hard time calling the Abhorsen just Sabriel as requested, and an even harder time remembering that Sabriel was her half-sister. She knew this logically, but it hadn’t sunk in emotionally yet. Seeing Sabriel was a bit like looking into a mirror though, albeit it one that aged her twenty years.

Sabriel didn’t comment on the near slip. “We have much to speak of, you and I. None of it bad,” she added, catching the flash of concern across Lirael’s face. “Your training, now that you’re well again. But that can wait until after supper.”

“Shall we sit then?” Ellimere proposed.

They did so, Sabriel and Touchstone next to each other, Sam by Sabriel, Ellimere by Touchstone, which left Lirael sitting between her niblings and across from the Abhorsen and king. Lirael tried not to fidget as food was brought out, sendings filling their wine glasses as Touchstone served bowls of soup from a tureen, passing them down the line. Once they were all served, they began eating, a creamy fish bisque that was as delicious as it was unfamiliar to Lirael.

“Mother, how did the trouble near Gamel turn out? The villagers reported some strange Death sickness?” Ellimere asked, taking a spoonful of bisque.

“Yes, only that wasn’t quite it. Some young fisherman dredged up a bandolier of bells from the sea, Charter knows how they got there,” Sabriel muttered the last bit, shaking her head.

“A necromancer?” Touchstone asked, eyes narrow. Sabriel’s frequent absence over the last month as she dealt with a general surge of Dead in response to the Destroyer’s near manifestation had left him particular ill-inclined towards people intentionally stirring up trouble.

“No, just a fool playing with things he shouldn’t,” Sabriel sighed. “As far as I can make out, I think he managed to ring Ranna and Saraneth together in such a way that he accidentally bound the living to sleep. Half the village was unconscious when I reached them, had been for days, though they woke up easily enough with the right marks. The worst damage was the scare itself and hunger-induced weakness.”

“Well that’s good then,” Ellimere nodded.

“Yes.” Sabriel paused to eat, then continued, “Before returning, I stored the bells at the House—and ran into Mogget.”

“ _Mogget?_ ” everyone chorused.

“I thought he went north?” Lirael asked. That’s what someone had said, in the near immediate aftermath of the event, when Lirael was trying to take stock of all the familiar comforting ties. Losing Mogget, so to speak, was a horrible blow on top of Dog—

She stopped the tears again, focusing her attention on Sabriel’s voice.

“—and I said as much to him,” Sabriel noted. “He said there weren’t good fish beyond the Rift.”

“One track mind. I’m surprised the House let him in without the ring,” Touchstone mumbled.

Sabriel’s lips twitched at her husband’s grumble. “I suspect the House recognizes him as much as us now.”

“Is he staying?” Sam asked.

“I didn’t think to ask,” Sabriel replied. “I suspect he might come and go as he pleases.”

A few smiles greeted that. As a silence began to settle, Ellimere spoke up again, “And Father, what of our southern neighbour?”

“Utterly detached from reality, but that’s nothing new,” Touchstone answered darkly. “Non-stop correspondence from their government, one letter apologizing for the attempted assassination, the next pressing me for details about what precisely happened at Farwin Mill, or else insisting that we allow a mass crossing of Southerling refugees, with no awareness of how much preparation both they and we would need before such an undertaking—”

Sabriel laid a hand on his arm. “We can discuss that more at a later time, of course.”

Touchstone’s shoulders dropped an inch and he let out a breath. “Yes. And I think I’m going to send them a ream of parchment and a jug of ink—half my time is wasted trying to piece together the crumbling papers.”

That earned a chuckle from Sam, and a blank look from Lirael. She felt as though she were missing information that would make the conversation more meaningful; the sensation was uncomfortably familiar.

The small bowls of soup finished, sendings cleared their places and brought out a second course, plates of seasoned pheasant and honeyed autumn squashes. Lirael thanked the sending that set hers down, but it didn’t step back. Instead, it took up Lirael’s fork and knife and began cutting up her food.

A hush fell over the table as the others noticed. Lirael sat frozen, eyes fixed on her plate, hand in her lap. The previous meals she had taken in her room had arrived in bite-sized pieces, or else hadn’t required the use of fork and knife—it hadn’t even occurred to her what eating in a group could mean. She felt hot tears sting her eyes, and let her hair fall forward like a shield as she fought them back.

The sending moved away after what felt like an infinite amount of time later; Lirael picked up her fork and began to eat without a word, not daring to look up.

Ellimere cleared her throat softly, straightening in her seat. “Will you be staying for long then, Mother?” Her question came out a touch too loud.

“There’s nothing else needing my attention right now,” Sabriel nodded. “For which I’m grateful—I’m glad to be home, and eager to get to know my half-sister.”

Lirael fought down a shame-faced blush at Sabriel’s warm smile. Eager now, perhaps, before actually getting to know her. What would the Abhorsen think when she learned about Lirael’s mousy past, the loneliness that drew her to the edge of the glacier not once but twice to contemplate a step into air that would spare her from suffering the knowledge of her difference any longer? “I’m not sure there’s anything interesting to know,” she managed.

“Nonsense!” Ellimere defended. “Why, you grew up at the Clayr’s Glacier—I’ve only ever been there once. What was it like? I can only imagine how troublesome the Sight must be.”

Lirael opened her mouth, but no sound emerged. That’s right—none of them knew. None of them knew she didn’t have the Sight. The idea that people couldn’t tell just by looking at her was novel. “I can’t See,” she confessed, voice small. “I’m a Remembrancer, not one with the Sight.”

“Oh.” Ellimere’s cheeks colored faintly. She took a breath to speak again—

—and was gently spoken over by Sabriel. “And thank the Charter for that. A Remembrancer’s gift is just as necessary to the Kingdom, and one sorely missed in years past.”

Lirael’s smile cringed into place. “I will do my best. I’m sure I’ll make a better Remembrancer than an Abhorsen.”

Sabriel blinked. “Why do you say that? You’ve already proved yourself a highly capable Charter mage, and you bound the Destroyer.”

“Yes, but that was before—” Lirael bit back the rest of her sentence, not wanting to sound like a child. “I can’t dual wield bells now,” she tried again, recalling the technique described in the _Book of the Dead_.

“I’m going to make Lirael a new hand though,” Sam said quickly, looking to Sabriel as if worried he might become the Abhorsen-in-Waiting again.

“That’s _Aunt_ Lirael,” Ellimere chided, leaning forward to shoot a glare at her brother.

“Oh no, please, Lirael is fine—”

“Make her a new hand?” Touchstone asked, voice raised above the brief clamour.

They quieted, and Sam explained, “Yes, like a sending and a Charter-skin combined, only permanent and closer to flesh and bone. Only it might look more like a glove, since the hand’s construction is incredibly complex, and rather than build a framework out of gold wire that might not have the same flexibility, filling a glove correctly matched to Lirael’s own spirit will probably be—” He stopped abruptly. “Um. Yes, I’m going to make a new hand.” He turned to Lirael, adding, “So you don’t have to worry about not being able to learn everything.”

Lirael felt a rush of gratitude towards Sam, even as a tiny piece of her mind winced at being so broken that someone needed to _fix her_ before she could—

“And even if Sam could not make you a replacement,” Sabriel said, cutting off Lirael’s line of thought. “The lack of a hand would not stop you from being the Abhorsen-in-Waiting.”

“I wouldn’t be as effective,” Lirael murmured.

Sabriel hummed. “I’ve done a lot of reading in the House library. Journals and books written by previous Abhorsens; a roster of the family. Some four hundred fifty years ago, there was an Abhorsen who was deaf.”

Eyebrows rose around the table.

“Deaf?” Sam repeated. “How could they use the bells?”

“Through training. She wrote extensively about the vibrational differences between each bell, learning to recognize the precise feel of a correctly-sounded bell such that her mastery of them was near absolute. The Abhorsen who came after her said none could recall her ever misringing a bell.” Sabriel smiled at Lirael. “So, as I said—you would still be the Abhorsen some day, even if your injury remained.”

Lirael searched her eyes, then dropped her gaze to the table. “Thank you…”

“Nothing to thank,” Sabriel returned.

Another short silence, as people enjoyed their pheasant. Lirael hadn’t realized that fear had been haunting her, but she relished the relief all the same.

Touchstone broke the silence. “I look forward to getting to know you as well, Lirael. I’m sorry I’ve been so busy this last month, I hadn’t the time to see how you were doing. Are your quarters to your liking?”

“Oh yes, they’re lovely,” Lirael reassured him. “I’m happy to see the bookshelves in the study—I, ah, I worked as a librarian at the Glacier and enjoyed it quite a lot.”

“You’re more than welcome to acquire what books you will to fill out your shelves,” Touchstone said. “As well as work in the palace library, if you’re interested. Due to some of the contents, we can only employ Charter mages there, so re-cataloging the areas ransacked during the Interrium has been a slow, on-going process.”

“I’d be happy to help,” she answered, smiling her first real smile of the evening. Worked had distracted her from her grief as a teenager; she imagined that would remain true into young adulthood.

Touchstone mirrored her smile, which shifted into a hesitant glance. “I have been wondering—I know you are Sabriel’s half-sister, and my sister-in-law. May I ask how old you are?”

“I’m nineteen, soon to turn twenty,” Lirael answered.

Sam choked, hastily dropping his knife as he reached for his wine, sipping some before swallowing thickly and exclaiming, “You told me you were thirty-five!”

Lirael stared, then started laughing. Sabriel smothered hers in her own goblet, while Touchstone chuckled. “Does Lirael _look_ thirty-five to you?”

“No! But she said— there were unguents—” Sam stumbled, face scarlet.

“I’m sorry, Sam—I lied,” Lirael admitted. “We had only just met, and I didn’t want there to be anything, strange between us—”

“I wasn’t—” Sam looked fully horrified now; Lirael laid a sympathetic hand on his arm.

“It’s okay, Sam. I’ve never been good with people—I just thought saying I was older would make you stop talking to me.” _So you wouldn’t realize how incredibly awkward I was._

He untensed a fraction. “Oh. Right.” The blush remained stubbornly in place as the light laughter tapered off. “Well, take it as a sign of my deep trust in you,” he stated.

“I will,” Lirael reassured, before taking up her fork again. Her heart was lighter than it had been in months, since leaving the Glacier. She suspected when she left that she might never see her room there again, and she was right. But not because her journey would kill her, or because the Clayr would decide not to take her back.

Because she found the place were she _actually_ belonged, with her sister and brother-in-law and nephew and niece. Her family, and her friends.

**Author's Note:**

> The trouble I had with this fic was the abrupt proliferation of ideas that had no place in this particular story, but wow do I want write more for this fandom now!


End file.
